Page 103 of Hang on St. Christopher

I saw O’Neill’s and Crabbie’s panicked faces trailing after me.

“All right, goodbye, then. My commiserations on your loss,” I said.

The bodyguard dumped me outside onto the pavement. “And don’t fucking come back!” he said.

I walked a little bit away from the bowling club until I saw Crabbie and O’Neill.

O’Neill was irked. Crabbie was resigned.

“What the hell was that?” O’Neill asked.

“I asked him for that interview.”

“If you want to commit suicide, mate, do it on your patch, okay?”

Crabbie was shaking his head. “Not a good idea to get intohisbad books, Sean, even if you do live in Scotland.”

“I was already in his bad books. He’s read my file. He knows I’m from Derry. He’s been one step ahead of us ever since Alan got shot,” I said.

“Good night, gentlemen, safe journey back across the border,” O’Neill said, and slipped off back into the darkness.

Silence in the BMW back to the border.

Silence from Newry to Belfast.

On the outskirts of Carrickfergus, I turned to Crabbie. “Look, I said I was sorry, all right?”

“I thought you were finally growing up, Sean. I’m disappointed in you,” Crabbie said.

And those words from that man hurt more than I can possibly say.

CHAPTER16

THE SECOND MURDER

Saturday morning. Coffee. Toast. News on the radio. Overnight, the IRA had left a truck bomb in front of the Europa Hotel in Belfast and blown it up. They’d given a twenty-minute warning, which was sufficient time to evacuate the area, and there had been no casualties. This was the ninth time the Europa Hotel had been blown up since the Troubles began. The second time this year. Anywhere else, this would be a huge news story, but it was story number four on the radio.

Still, it reminded me of something. A wee task I had to take care of.

The last time they’d blown up the Europa, one of the chickenshit details I’d been given was to accompany a DHSS officer to make a notification. The DHSS were cutting some kid off unemployment because he’d been caught working on the Europa bomb site—on the front page of theBelfast Telegraph,no less. But the kid lived in a tough neighborhood, and the DHSS were scared about going there in person to tell him. Hence the cops. Hence me.

We’d found the kid’s house easily. He was a loner who lived with his gran in the worst neighborhood in Rathcoole, poor sod. An old lady had answered. “Yes?”

“We’re looking for Michael Forsythe.”

“Michael, it’s the police for you.”

Forsythe: skinny, handsome, flighty, with wild, dangerous blue eyes. He’d do well as a paramilitary chieftain of whatever side he chose to join. Better to keep him in regular employment, not cut him off the dole... But what did the DHSS care about the long-term good of society? The DHSS officer had informed him that he could either sign off dole forever or face prosecution. Forsythe chose the former path. Satisfied, the DHSS officer split, but I stayed and drank the old lady’s tea. I, for one, wasn’t going to let this kid fall through the cracks. “What will you do now, son?” I’d asked.

“I can’t go back in the army, can I?”

“Why? What happened to you in the army?”

“I stole a truck and they chucked me out.”

“Aye, that’ll do it.”

“And there are no jobs over here.”

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